A/N: Thank you, Juliet Knighly and afedrigo for your reviews on the previous chapters. And thank you to the guests who have continued to show their support. You are all one of the most crucial reasons why I keep wanting to write.
Chapter 5: Secrets and Lies
Draco smirked to himself as he vacated the Hogwarts Express and embarked to the horseless carriages. That will teach Potter not to listen in at keyholes. Sure, the event that the so-called Chosen One would be thwarted from his efforts to escape the train were slim. Someone was bound to come across him eventually and, even if they didn't, the spell would wear off long before the Hogwarts Express reached London. Draco knew he had merely cost Potter convenience and a bit of pride. But, the slight felt well worth it.
Entering one of the final carriages, Draco nearly collapsed onto the bench, pressing his shoulders into the narrow corner and shooting a look of warning at the jabbering third years who fell silent upon seeing the imposing sixth year. Draco was quite sure his name and age was all that remained of his intimidation with other pupils, as he doubted he looked like much of a threat. He recalled the bruises under his eyes as he left for London that morning, how his clothes draped over his much thinner frame, the way his hands still shook, however imperceptibly, permanent tremours of a trauma never to be forgotten.
To be repeated, again and again. For the rest of his life.
His mother had pleaded with him all the way until he boarded the train to stay at home longer for recovery. He brushed her off, unwilling to allow her the assurance she craved for he knew it was of empty meaning and it would only serve to weaken his own resolve. Awaiting recovery was a futile effort. He would never recover. He would never be better. Never, never. And he had to go to Hogwarts. To reclaim the status he was born with, however figuratively, he had to kill Dumbledore. And he couldn't very well do it from his bedroom.
The jolting trot of the cart came to a halt abruptly, the wall Draco had been leaning on smartly rapping his back and pitching him forward. He caught himself with the points of his polished shoes, but it was nevertheless undignifying. He cast a glance at his juniors to see if what they made of him, but found that they had already taken their leave, and the young werewolf was alone in the cart.
He hurriedly exited and rushed to join the throng of gathering students at the castle gates. The crowd of youths seemed to be moving slower than usual into the Entrance Hall and, when at last Draco was near enough, he realized why.
Mr. Filch, the insufferable Squib caretaker of Hogwarts stood beside the single opened gate, probing each student that passed with his gaze for any telltale suspicious behaviour. For several students, he went so far as to bid them to remove their outer robes for further inspection. Every face was scrutinized and each student that passed him was given a terse nod of acknowledgement and a mark upon a list. No doubt their luggage, which would be brought up by the house elves during the feast, would be given similar attention. It was a good thing that Draco had not needed to bring any of Borgin's artefacts to school.
It wasn't until after he passed by the caretaker's hawk-like stare and onto the school grounds did he find his friends. Crabbe and Goyle gave him an amicable nod, but then continued their brisk trot to the Great Hall, probably eager to tuck in to the start-of-term feast. Draco then turned to the remaining member of his troupe, whom had already taken to hanging on his arm and blinking her eyes adoringly at him. Pansy Parkinson's fingertips were terribly near the still raised marks upon Draco's forearm and he gritted his teeth against the pinched nerves, praying that she didn't stumble across the raised, uneven skin.
As though reading his thoughts, Pansy leaned in close, her breath tickling his ear. "Will you show it to me?"
Draco startled at her tone, hushed lest passersby should hear. "Show you what?" He asked warily, eyes darting about for eavesdroppers.
"The Mark," she breathed in reverence.
All of his muscles seemed to tense and then strain with the shock of her say what he had been so dreading. It took a few panicked heartbeats before he realized that she had been speaking of the Dark Mark. He relaxed then but only slightly.
"No," he said shortly. "Let's not speak of it here."
"But later," she pressed. Drawing even closer and dancing her fingers across his chest, she added, "when we're alone?"
Draco was sorely tempted to say yes. Pansy wasn't necessarily the brightest Lumos Charm, but she was quite a looker, by Hogwarts standards. A mere two months ago he would have leapt at such an opportunity. Now, however, he was too bogged down by more serious matters to pay her as much mind. Not to mention that the "dark mark" he had to show her was not at all what she was surely expecting.
"Really, Parkinson, you think the Dark Lord is a fool? That he would brand me as a Death Eater and send me right under Dumbledore's nose? Come now, even you aren't that thick."
He hadn't meant to be quite so rude. Well, perhaps he had. But, that was often how Draco dealt with arming himself against letting others go. By making them want to drop him first.
As Pansy disentangled from him and sauntered off in disgust, he reflected that this was better. The less she was in his life, the less he would have to lie. The less secrets he would have to keep. Yes, he realized as he entered the Great Hall and went to the Slytherin table, he was on the path to lead a very lonely life indeed.
/
As the feast continued and Ron gorged himself beside her, Hermione, content now that Harry had turned up, found her gaze drifting to the table on the far side of the Great Hall. Malfoy had picked half heartedly at his food, eyes downcast at his plate and refusing to meet the eyes of his classmates, even Crabbe and Goyle who kept exchanging curious glances with one another as their leader's silence drew on uncharacteristically long.
Malfoy dropped his fork unceremoniously upon the table and slouched over his lap. He kept his hands folded on the table, however his thumbs kept twitching and he would bend his head to either side, brushing his earlobes to his shoulders as though desperately fighting not to cover his ears. Abruptly, Malfoy stood and bolted from the Hall. An older Slytherin prefect's gaze trailed after him disapprovingly, but the blonde wizard's reputation must have stopped him from pursuing.
Hermione, however, had no such connotations. She stood as well, swinging her legs over the bench and moving to follow him before he could get too much of a lead.
"Wrrrugmmpf?" Ron protested around a mouthful of food. Foregoing the tedious process of chewing, he swallowed the obstruction with no small amount of effort and spoke again. "Where are you going?"
"Library," she said smoothly. "I want to get a jumpstart on our classwork this year. You know, the N.E.W.T.s are just around the corner, it won't do to let our minds go too idle."
"Alright, alright just go!" Ron said, drawing his face into exaggerated disgust. "Bloody hell, Hermione, you'd do well to warn a bloke before mentioning N.E.W.T.s!"
Hermione rolled her eyes as she walked away from the boys. It was necessary, she assured herself, to lie to her friends. After all, she had to satiate her curiosity somehow, and if she told Harry and Ron how she meant to do so, they would end up confronting Malfoy before she could learn anything. Harry was brave. Ron was righteous. But neither were very good at research, which is what Hermione valued and craved of life. Learning to her was to uncover all of the world's mysteries. And she was becoming increasingly interested in Malfoy's.
Yet, it still hurt to lie. She could only hope that Malfoy was worth it.
/
Draco walked briskly around the Slytherin table and out of the Great Hall. By the time he left, he had broken into an awkward run. His bones ached with the effort and his muscles burned in utter agony. By the time he reached the dungeons, he nearly collapsed at the foot of the stairs. He sat in the middle of the corridor, gasping and crying, he was crying. Tears were running down his face from the pain of the exertion and the torturous assault on his hearing in the Great Hall and why, why, why had this happened to him! To him, the king of Slytherin House! The heir to the Malfoy estate, the picture of pureblood. Why him? And now, a slave to his emotions, as he was a slave to time, to the Dark Lord, to the damned moon, he was crying. At school. And then, a shoe squeaked on the floor above him.
In an instant, he wiped frantically at his eyes, willing the tell-tale redness to fade from his face, though he knew the effort was futile. He splayed a palm against the cool brick wall and attempted to rise but, finding the effort not in his current power, resolved to sit tall and grasp the handle of his wand in wary preparation.
The witch who tramped down the stairs at long last was not at all whom he expected. She stopped, staring at him in shock. "Malfoy," she said hesitantly. Her Gryffindor badge gleamed in the low-lit corridor.
"Granger," he said in equal surprise. And, without him meaning to, his hand loosened from his wand and the slender stave clattered on the stone floor between them.
